Dear Veronica
by katjen
Summary: S2, Post LWS, LoVe ... For all your considerable sleuthing skills Veronica, you’re never right about me. About us...
1. The Letter

Veronica,

Let me preface this by saying I understand if you burn this letter.

I know you want nothing to do with me and I've tried to do what you want, to stay out of your way. You haven't spoken to me in 6 days and I get it. I get that I will be one of those people you hated in high school and left behind and I know it's what I deserve. I ran out of second chances with you a long time ago and I know I have no right to try and fix this. I know you don't want me to.

You turn the other way when you see me coming. It's one of the few things I can count on these days, Wallace and Weevil and that girl with the hair all running interference for you. I can't blame them for it. Or you. Because I get it. They're protecting you from me. Because I hurt you Veronica. I always hurt you. Even when it's the last thing on earth I want to do, I always find a way. And I am so fucking sorry for it. You have no idea how fucking sorry I am.

I know nothing's going to make any of what I'm saying matter anymore. I'm probably not even going to give this to you. Fuck, maybe I'll burn it, but either way I have to get this out. Even if you don't read it, even if you never know, I have to explain that it wasn't supposed to be like this. _We_ weren't supposed to be like this, not anymore.

I don't remember what I said to you that night but I know that whatever it was it was true. I know it was because that was the plan all along. For all your considerable sleuthing skills Veronica, you're never right about me. About us. I could care less about the prom. The party was just the setting, it was just the place where it happened. I'd be in a suit, trying my best to look dashing, and you'd be gorgeous like you are and maybe you'd dance with me again. And maybe you'd notice that most of the music came from your ipod. And maybe I'd get enough liquor in me to be brave enough to tell you what I've been wanting to tell you all year. What I've been fucking aching to tell you.

And apparently I did. Tell you. Because, Veronica, you have never looked at me the way you looked at me that morning. I've had dreams where you've looked at me like that.

Whatever I said that made you look at me the way you did when I opened the door… I meant it. And I will be sorry till the day I die for what happened after.

I can't get the image of you out of my head. You looking back at me that morning as I just stood there and let it happen, let you walk away. It's haunting me, keeping me up at night along with a million other regrets I've accumulated over the past year. That one's the heaviest though, the hardest to relive over and over and over again even though it's got some tough fucking competition.

I've let you go three times. The first time because I had to. Because I knew all along that if Duncan wanted you... Well, you were his. That's always been true. Even when we were together, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, I kept waiting for you to change your mind about me. About us. I lived for that summer Veronica but I knew it wouldn't last.

In the end I held the door for you. I gave you a way out and you took it and as angry as I was, as fucking _crushed_ as I was I think I knew deep down that you had been waiting for it. Because you loved him. Love him. Whatever. I get it. But I want you to know I never shut the door behind you no matter how bad I wanted to, no matter how much it was killing me. I kept it open, left the light on.

But you didn't come back. You didn't come back and time was running out so I had to do something, I had to throw a party because then if you said no I could pretend I was drunk and didn't really mean it anyway. I'm still retching at the irony.

The second time I let you go it was that night. You said you ran away. Knowing me I probably just stood there and watched you do it, grabbed the nearest bottle and tried to forget what it looked like. Tried to forget that I had tried at all.

I know I wanted to stop you. I know I would have wanted that. But obviously I didn't, and I'm not surprised because it's what I do. I stand there and I watch people leave. It's less painful than begging, less painful than ripping myself open and bleeding all over the place when I know deep down the answer is still going to be _no_.

I'm kicking myself for not doing it anyway. Because this year has been hell. Seeing you every day and not _telling_ you has been hell.

The possibility of having you look at me, pitying me, turning me down for a third time couldn't have been worse than that. There's no way.

I should have fought for you. From the very beginning I should have fought.

And I should have stopped you that night. I should have kissed you until you either slapped me or kissed me back.

The third time I wanted to make you stay. I wanted to hold onto you until the room stopped spinning and I could remember everything I drank away, everything that happened, even the parts that hurt. But I couldn't. I couldn't because I knew you didn't want me to.

You told me I said we were epic.

We are epic, Veronica. What goes on in my chest whenever I see you is fucking epic. You make me forget to breathe. You make me want to be better than I am. You make me want to try.

And I am. I'm trying not to let you walk away this time. I'm trying no matter how futile it is. Because what we had… what we _have_... It's not going to go away just because I fucked up. Just because you won't look at me.

I'm telling the truth when I say I don't know what happened. I woke up alone in my bed. Someone was in the shower and there was a champagne glass next to my head and I thought it was yours, because given a choice I will always choose the bottle and there wasn't anyone else, there _isn't_ anyone else I want to wake up with. And I had this image in my head, this kiss, you in your black dress, the way it felt under my hands, the way you felt… But my bed didn't smell like you. Like vanilla and sugar. Marshmallows. I don't know what happened with Kendall, but she wasn't there either, in the sheets. She wasn't even in the glass by my bed. No lipstick on the rim, no lipstick on me, on those white sheets. I don't know what that means, but I want to believe it didn't happen. That I didn't sleep with her because I couldn't have you, because I wanted to hurt you. Because I don't Veronica. I don't want to hurt you ever again.

So this is it. My last ditch effort. I'm hoping you'll appreciate the inherent cheesy high school-ness of the enclosed, which is why I burned it for you in the first place. The first version came into existence last summer in lieu of a "I-Luv-You-Beary-Much" teddy bear. 12 tracks of whatever crap passed for music on the radio – it was a joke, cheesy love songs from cheesy boy bands and dudes in spandex from the 80's. Because, you know, that was so _us_.

The second version… well let's just say it had a lot of Eminem on it.

And the third. This version. I don't know what to say about it. I guess it's my boombox under your window. My running through the airport before you get on the plane. School's almost over, summer's almost here and we're running out of time and I'd hate myself even more than I already do if I didn't try to tell you at least once. While sober anyway.

I'm sorry Veronica. I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry I didn't remember what I said, but I'm not sorry I said it.

I love you.

There it is. On paper for all to see. Evidence in my own hand, a written confession. You can turn it to ashes if you want, you can throw it away and it'll still be true.

I'm going to the pier tonight, the yacht. I've been sleeping there lately instead of my room at the Grand so… yeah. I'll be there on the pier and maybe you'll be there and maybe not. I'm guessing not. But, I don't know, on the off chance you want to talk, you want to tell me to fuck myself, you want to slap me, throw a drink in my face… You know, whatever strikes you. That's where I'll be. Waiting for you even if you never come.

Logan.


	2. The Mix: 01: Age of Consent: New Order

He dumps a handful of sand down the back of your dress and you stand there for a moment sputtering as he takes off at a dead run, Lilly and Duncan cracking up at the look of stunned outrage on your face.

And then you're sprinting after him, the skirt of your prom dress in your hands, hitched up over your knees. You're laughing as Lilly yells after you, "Kick his ass, Mars!" and then all you can hear is the surf crashing against the beach, your bare feet slapping against the wet sand, your breath panting and catching between giggles.

He's way ahead, loping easily and _backwards_ now, mockingly giving you a two-handed "come and get it."

Running has shifted the sand into your underwear, and you shout, "You are _so_ dead, Echolls!" but you're not even close to catching up and he knows it, the smirky bastard…

He slows to a jog and then stops altogether making a big show of looking at his nonexistent watch and yawning theatrically, one hand patting his open mouth.

So you don't slow down.

Because that? That right there? That is him _asking_ for it.

The satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen fractionally before you barrel into him makes the bruises you're going to get more than worth it.

He _oomph_'s as you knock him over, the two of you tumbling to the ground in a tangle of arms his long legs your pink poofy skirt. You hear something rip, he knees your thigh hard, but you laugh triumphantly once you're satisfied you have him pinned and sit up on his waist, your hands shackled around his wrists and over his head as he groans in mock agony.

You rub sand into his hair, breathless from running and laughing and the champagne you've drunk is swirling around in your head making you feel light and fizzy and giggly and really, Logan could toss you off him any time he wants but you're pretending otherwise and so is he.

He "struggles" for a moment longer before giving up entirely and letting you do what you want with a roll of his eyes and a sigh of exaggerated patience.

That's when you start adding handfuls down his tuxedo shirt.

"Hey!"

"Say it!"

"Nuh uh."

"_Say_ it!"

"Nope."

"I've got a whole beach here, Echolls."

He laughs - giggles actually - trying to slap your hands away, and you easily get another fistful under his collar before he slurs, "Okay, 'kay! V'ronica Mars is _not_ a cream puff…"

You nod, smack his lumpy shirt with a smile, satisfied.

"Just so we're clear, bucko."

He sits up suddenly and grins and you can almost hear all of the sand you've shoved under his shirt rush down from his chest to his belly, giving him a gut that's not there at all. You poke at it, "Fatty," and he jerks back with a snort then forward digging his fingers into your sides and you yelp, automatically curling your back, and then you are eye to eye, nose to nose and after a moment of staying that way, of not moving, his grin fades, flickers into an uncertain smile.

Sand is still trickling down your back into your underwear and you try to stop yourself from squirming because you're still on his lap, your butt on his upper thighs, but you do it anyway because it tickles and you can't help it and his hands reflexively tighten on either side of your waist to keep you from moving.

He catches his breath. Or maybe you do.

You feel a little dizzy and maybe not so in love with champagne anymore because you're looking at his mouth now and wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

You like his lower lip.

Lilly runs up and throws herself on top of you giggling and howling at the moon and you fall forward onto Logan who rolls his eyes again, laughing again, and you feel his breath on your lips for an instant before you bury your face in his neck because there is nowhere else for you to go as Lilly leans over your left shoulder and kisses her boyfriend hard.

You feel his heart beating against yours, his arms around you as he holds Lilly to you both and you're laughing now too, warm and happy, and, if you admit it to yourself, a little bit turned on sandwiched between the two of them, Lilly's breasts squashed against your back and your knees on either side of Logan's hips.

"Okay, this is so not something I need to see ever." Duncan plops down beside you with your camera, fresh bottle in hand, and Lilly rolls off to reach for it as you sit up immediately swinging your leg over until you're not on top of Logan anymore.

You glance back at him over your shoulder as you wrestle your skirt free from his legs and he lies there not helping, his head cocked to the side looking up at you. You elbow him in the ribs and he smiles, scrunching his nose and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms before snapping into a sitting position himself and taking a turn with the bottle.

You reach for Duncan's hand and it's there like you knew it would be.

"Best. Prom. EVER." Lilly sighs and takes a swig as Logan hands the bottle back to her wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Duncan brings yours to his lips, kisses your knuckles and laughs into your palm as you turn your wrist to touch his face.

"Best prom ever…" you murmur, smiling softly.

"Not yet."

Logan flips open his cell with a flourish.

He tells the driver where you are and you frown, "We're not leaving yet are we?"

He looks at you with a sideways smile, keeps his eyes on yours as he says to the driver, "Turn it up."

And after a moment you hear it, the radio as high as it can go floating out of the darkness from the parking lot where the limo has pulled up to wait, and Lilly shrieks, _Yes_, kissing Logan roughly, curling her fingers into his shirt, before getting to her feet and dancing on the sand her dress glittering and sparkling in the moonlight.

She holds her hands out to you and you take them, you dance together barefoot, the straps of your shoes swinging from your wrists as the boys watch and pass the champagne back and forth nudging each other and laughing.

You smile at Lilly who flings herself into your arms and you spin and spin and you think this is one of those times you will remember forever - you and Lilly dancing to New Order crazy and tipsy and in love with your boyfriends. It will be a _"remember when…"_ story and it never occurs to you that Lilly won't be there someday to say, _"Yeah, I do. It was fucking awesome."_


	3. The Mix: 02: Two More Years: Bloc Party

She's wearing a white dress and she almost seems to glow.

She looks all innocent and ethereal and who the fuck is she kidding?

Colored lights splash over her as she makes her way further inside, and now, now she looks like stained glass.

You think she's making it so easy to break her it's practically an invitation.

When she passes by you you laugh out loud, nearly spitting beer all over your shirt.

It is so beyond ridiculous that she is here. So completely _wrong_ and annoying, like trying to shove a puzzle piece in that obviously doesn't fit.

Veronica Mars is on the periphery, part of the border.

She's not the picture, not anymore, and you wish she'd just fucking stay where you've put her on the sidelines and out of the way because _then_ you could forget about her. You and Duncan could both forget all about her and her fucking family and just... get through the year. Because maybe after a year it won't hurt so fucking much.

But she keeps _doing_ this.

Showing up.

She sits at a lunch table directly across from you and Duncan. She hasn't changed her routes to class, hasn't changed her seat in the few you have together to be farther away. She's always within spitting distance.

So you spit.

Words like stones.

Go the fuck away Veronica Mars. No one wants you here. Not anymore.

You know why she's here tonight though. To prove that it doesn't _affect_ her, that she doesn't _care what anyone says_. You can see it as she passes by you, her head held high, tiny shoulders squared, and you think, _You're not fooling anyone_.

You know it hurts. You know every day is hell. You've made sure of it.

Duncan ignores her like he did right before Lilly was murdered.

But you.

You do everything you can to make her bleed, to make her cry.

Because it's what she deserves.

She stiffens when you laugh again and you say with faux sincerity to her back, "Nice dress, Ronnie."

_You want to martyr yourself, at least you're dressed for it…_

You turn back to the makeshift bar as she disappears into the crowd. You lose track of her and her pure-as-the-driven-fucking-snow party dress and after twenty minutes you forget that she is there at all.

Because you're sticking your tongue down some girl's throat, you're putting your hand up her skirt. You're chugging whatever is in your cup because it's always full and waste not want not or whatever and you're swallowing every pill that gets handed to you and you are fucking flying and it feels good because for once, for _once_ you are not thinking about Lilly and how she should be here telling you to stop being a jackass and then kissing you and fucking you until you realize she is the only drug, you don't need any of this if you have her.

_But you __**don't**__ have her. You'll never have her ever again and it's all your fault…_

_Well, not __**all**__ your fault. There's someone else. There's someone else you can blame._

You break away from whatsername's mouth to finish the rest of your beer, but she's still twined around you like a fucking vine. The air inside the house is thick and soupy with body heat, with 10 different kinds of smoke, and you're sticking to this girl you've been groping and it's not turning you on anymore, it's making you want to take a shower.

She whines against your neck, sucking kisses and trying to get your hand back where she wants it but you're getting bored because it's boring.

You're good at faking it but you've scanned the room in the three seconds she's let you come up for air, and you can see that no one you care about is around right now. Duncan's nowhere to be seen and you don't have to set a good example for anyone else.

You tell her you'll be right back and you head out to the patio for some air and goddamn it feels good to close your eyes and feel it, the cool breeze sliding over your skin…

And then out of nowhere it hits you, the wave of loneliness that you have been trying to stave off since before Lilly died, when Duncan started acting like a pod person and the only other friend you had _told_ on you, like three seconds of tongue was worth tattling about when Lilly gave as good as she got and you weren't always the one giving it to her even when you _weren't_ broken up.

Sometimes you wanted to pat Veronica on the head and feed her a cookie. You're naiveté was a choice, hers was just…

You shake your head.

Whatever.

She fucking made her choice then, and she sure as shit made it four months ago.

You open your eyes to look for Luke, Sean. You sold what you had to some asshole and you're starting to come down and that's the last thing you want right now, but you get distracted by the lights looking like fireflies strung up around the pool, the paper stars like the inside of a kaleidoscope. That floating feeling, what's left of your high, makes them hover, makes them sit in the air like magic and it's really fucking pretty so you smile.

And then right before your eyes those points of light strung on strings start to bleed and drip. The stars morph into something rotten, something dead, bloated, and your stomach starts to heave, your heartbeat in your ears pounding away like a jackhammer.

You stumble onto the grass, you drop to your knees and press your face into it because it's cool like the wind was cool before you started thinking about Veronica and you got distracted, you got angry.

Your shoulders sink towards the ground, curling you up into yourself like you're waiting for a kick, your knees drawn up under you, up against your chest and you're in the fucking fetal position now, you can't seem to unlock your muscles, you can't seem to make it stop.

You tell yourself you don't need to be protecting any vital organs right now, that the rotting stars and bleeding lights aren't going to kick your ass and that if Dick or anyone sees you like this you are going to be really fucking embarrassed.

So you force yourself to relax, to uncurl, to sit the hell up.

The world zigzags around you when you do and those strings of light drip drip dripping like blood into the pool, spreading like ink in the water are waiting for you, but something is glowing to your right, something white and soft and you go to it you get to your feet and you go to it because it looks safe.

White, white dress…

You stand over her and you think _Lilly_… long blond hair, black leather cuffs on her slender wrists like a game you'd play.

_Tell me when to stop, lover…_

_Don't stop, don't ever stop…_

You sit down beside her, touch her hair, gently softly. You rest your forehead lightly against her cheekbone and you say, "I miss you… I miss you so fucking much… what am I supposed to do…"

And then she moves, she shifts beneath you and her hair falls away and it's not Lilly, it's never Lilly no matter how much you want it to be. It's always Veronica Fucking Mars ruining your high, ruining your life.

Your hand is on the other side of her head, clutching the top of the deck chair she's passed out on for support. You're leaning over her completely, she's all you can see and her eyes are closed, her mouth is open and you whisper into it while the lights bleed behind you, the stars fall to pieces, "I hate you."

Your eyes are burning but you don't cry.

"Duncan needed you."

Your chest is aching but you don't curl in on yourself.

"I needed you. I needed you, Veronica."

Her lashes flicker against her cheeks, heavy and dark with makeup that's trying to make her look tough, like she can handle this.

"Do you hear me? Do you hear me, V'ronica?"

She opens her eyes slowly and then she's looking right into yours. Soft and sleepy she murmurs, "Logan".

She smiles like she doesn't know who you are now, she smiles like everything's okay and your eyes burn and your chest aches because you want it to be, God, that's all you've ever wanted...

But it's not okay and it won't be ever again and you're angry for the way she's looking at you because it means it isn't working, your insults, your taunts. It means she's still going to be there in your line of vision, insistently, stubbornly, undeniably _there_ and forcing you to remember when that was okay, when it was _more_ than okay.

You don't want to remember when you were friends with Veronica Mars.

You want to erase all of it, even Lilly, because remembering… remembering what your life used to be… it's killing you. As crappy as it was most of the time, as little as four freaking months ago you at least had something to hold on to, something that made it all worthwhile. But now… now it's a 24-7 bad time no matter how many parties you go to, how many girls you do.

None of it feels like anything. Sex, drugs, alcohol…

None of it feels like blue eyes and long blond hair and that slow smirky mouth trailing kisses over every inch of your body, kissing your scars without asking about them, without needing to know every little detail of how they got there, just knowing that _this_, that being touched so softly by someone who knows is almost enough to make up for them.

"Logan…"

You're staring at her mouth and she's still looking up at you soft and glowing and you move towards it, you feel her breath in your mouth, the whisper of her lips against yours...

You tear yourself away from her so fast you almost fall off the deck chair and then all of a sudden Dick is there with a bottle of tequila, shot glasses, limes and salt and a "what do we have here?"

You don't know, you don't know, your insides are swirling with too much booze, too many drugs, a confusing memory of prom night on the beach, too much anger, too much hurt…

And then there are the insides of her wrists, her neck and shoulders damp with swaths of saliva, crystals of salt and you ask Dick for a hit of something, _anything_, when he turns to you and says "Your turn bro" because you're coming down hard but you laugh when you say, "No, you go, man", you whoop it up as he palms you a vial of GHB because this is who you are now and you don't ever taste her skin but you watch, you watch and even though your fists are clenched at your sides and you're thinking you could seriously kill Dick Casablancas, you stare down at her flickering black eyelashes, the black wrist cuffs and ribbon around her neck, her white, white dress that is a lie and think _are you happy now? Are you fucking satisfied? _

You take a sliver of lime, your head is starting to clear and you aren't confused anymore, you're a little drunk, a little buzzed, but you know who you are and who she is and what she did and you put the lime in her mouth and you laugh and you think, _Fine. I'll be your fucking villain._


End file.
